


dom!Anders prompts

by ginger_green



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: BDSM, Dom Anders (Dragon Age), Edgeplay, Fade Sex, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Magic, Nonbinary Character, Overstimulation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Possession, Power Play, Praise Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-12 17:35:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29264385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ginger_green/pseuds/ginger_green
Summary: It is what it says on the tin.
Relationships: Anders/Male Hawke, Anders/Male Hawke/Justice (Dragon Age)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 31





	1. Worship

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ser_Thirst_A_Lot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ser_Thirst_A_Lot/gifts).



"Feeling good, Hawke?"

He breathes out, every muscle warm and relaxed after a spasm. The soft buzz of electricity lulls his thoughts. He can feel it dance on his skin, a thousand echoes of a single touch. He pauses to trace his every nerve, from the curled toes up to the waist and across the torso to the silken rope that binds his wrists.

"Yeah. Feeling good."

Anders watches him with a grin, head rested on Hawke's chest.

"Let's give you a short break... After all, what's all the hard work if I don't take time to admire it?"

The sweat is bitter on his lips. He squints and looks down, at the ruffles of hair under Anders' palm, the love handles hugging his wide hips, the jutting scars - some fresh, still covered with scaly dead skin. He knows where the stump of his ring finger is brushing the knot on the rope, where a strand of hair covers the disfigured arch of his right brow. Admiration is not unfamiliar, but in this state it's all the sweeter. Every droplet of his sweat, every scar and birthmark, all of him - so deliciously helpless, ripe for the taking, splayed and bound at Anders' mercy. It takes courage. And so admiration feels good. Gratitude feels good.

Anders rises slightly on his elbows to reach Hawke's chin. His lips tingle with just the hint of electric shock, enough to make Hawke shiver in anticipation but not to bring pain.

"You're a pretty, pretty thing," he whispers, pressing quick tender kisses into Hawke's jaw and neck. "My pretty thing."

"I am rather pretty..." The kisses grow longer and sweeter, and Hawke's breath hitches. "Maker's blood, you're too good at this."

He feels Anders chuckle against his collarbone.

"Only because you're so receptive. The way you blush, the noises you make... worth every effort."

His teeth are sharp, but the bite is gentle. A spark of light prowls between his fingers; Hawke winces, lips parted in a quiet moan. The kindness of it all, the cloud-like touch that never quite clenches into a grip - it's so much more effective than any bondage. The mage laughs.

"Aw, that's almost too cute. Do it again."

This time he bites deeper, and the shock is harder. It almost hurts but is still not quite there, not quite enough. Hawke writhes, straining the rope, limbs aching with sweet weakness. There's a dark depth in Anders' eyes that sends him down a spiral, turns his blood into hot liquor. It pulls on the strings he never knew he had - the wish to be owned. It's a special type of liberty. Neither carefree nor intoxicating, but rather soothing, like a clean sheet draped over your naked body. And there's no guilt or shame attached. Only a sense of relief inexplicably brought through tension.

"Anders, please--"

"More?.. Come on, say it."

"Yes, yes, please..."

"So polite. Hold still for me, will you?"

He can hear it before it comes. The whisper of the Fade, materialized in a shockwave. The flash of pain is frightening and sweet. He cries out, pleading for mercy for a split second. The wave passes quickly, leaving him to draw short, sharp breaths. He whines, grinding against Anders' body as eagerly as he can. The rope holds him back; all he can do is struggle as Anders traces each mark on his skin with just his fingertips. His touch is light. Too light.

"My precious," he coos, leaning in to plant another mist of kisses around Hawke's areolae, "my dearest, my favorite... you are doing so well. You're perfect, all of you."

"Take me," Hawke pleads, straining the rope until it burns his wrists, desperate to hold, to press Anders close, to fit his entire being into the tight space under the ribcage. "Please, please, take me."

"Not yet, love. Not yet."

Anders' breath is heavy, like the sighing of a flame. His kisses grow frantic, leaving wet spots of warmth on Hawke's touch-starved skin. He's veined with light, he _is_ the light; a crushing, overwhelming presence streams through his every pore. When he speaks, his voice has an otherworldly echo.

_"Ours, all ours. Our pretty thing."_

A low groan is all Hawke can utter, buried in affection, brought to agony by its sweetness. He'd give his whole arm for them to grab him, fuck him, leave him red and raw and spent. He who could otherwise snap them in half without breaking a sweat - he's their toy, and the gentler they are, the greater their power.

"Please. Please, Anders, Justice, please..." He hardly knows what he's saying anymore, all thoughts tangled into a single soft mass that drowns his reason. Anders' thumb brushes his lips and he falls silent, staring through lust into the fog of their eyes. Their attention is endless. They are old and powerful, and their combined being is focused on wanting to touch him, to hear him cry, to twist and wring him until he begs them to stop. They kiss him on the lips this time, deep and rough, biting into his tongue when he tries to return the kiss, forcing him to be quiet and passive. When they press their body to his, there is a double pulse inside them, an interlude of one heart that beats like two. Their fingers burn him with short bursts of electricity, making his own heart rush like a rabbit.

_"Tell us what you want, pretty thing. Say it loud."_

"Please..." He has to catch a breath; they wait patiently for his words, hungry to swallow them whole. "Please, my love, fuck me."

They nod, satisfied, then retreat for a brief moment to spread a generous pouring of fragrant oil between their glowing fingers. They take time caressing the sensitive parts of his inner thighs, to leave a bitemark on his soft belly. Their fingers take the last crumbs of coherent thought out of his head, and he bucks his hips, mindlessly answering their movement, and moans without holding back. Their care feels so good. Belonging feels good.

_"Are you grateful, pet? Do you want more?"_

"Y-yeah... Maker, please, more."

They are thorough and careful with him, never quite giving what he wants, never letting him slip out of the present. He's hard and leaking precum onto the sheets, and the want is painful, tormenting; and he cries out and calls them until they lean close, murmuring praises and reassurances in two voices. They hold him down and fuck him as hard as he wants at last. They are all his as much as he is theirs.

 _"Don't close your eyes. We want you to look. To see what you've become,"_ they whisper into his ear, following it with a bite just under the lobe. He obeys, though his eyes are watering and everything is a blur. He knows he's blushing from the forehead to the tip of his toes. He knows that he's weak, that there is no guard for them left to break, that in this state he will do anything they want.

It's deeper than pleasure, the abyss that they make him sink into, and his absent expression tells them more than words. They slow down, keep him still for a while, then stop and pull back, disregarding the mess on the sheets. They untie him and let his body fall down. Their arms circle him like a caught bird. They are safe and soft. It's very quiet inside, like he's not even there anymore. There is a gap, miles and miles of space over his head, and he floats as they rock him gently, rubbing the red markings on his wrists.

"I've got you," Anders assures him quietly, and Hawke believes him because right now he believes everything. "I've got you... Want some water?.. or just a cuddle?"

"Water... Yes. Water."

Anders helps him drink. Then Hawke leans back into his embrace, exhausted but content. His whole body aches a bit, but it's a good ache. Everything is good. He's good. Anders is good. Life is good in all directions when you belong.

"Want a bit less biting next time?"

"It's just enough. No ropes, maybe. Want to hold you."

"Hold all you want. Hold, bite, throw around, tie me to a flagpole and carry like a banner. With you, anything goes."


	2. Titles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for context: this is a canon-verse AU where after the exalted council Inquisitor hires Anders as the next spymaster and Hawke as a "freeform problem-solver" (spoiler: he actually creates more problems than he solves but he keeps Anders happy and also has big muscles so no one complains).

The coat was of noble cut, but in muted colors at his request - dark blue, grey and black, embroidered with silver. Its heavy buckles glistened in the light of enchanted lamps; the rest blended with shadows. In the tall mirror he saw a figure of mystery and power. A ghost wrapped in darkness. So far removed from what he once was, yet... very same.

A hint of a rustle came from behind. A gift, for the one smiling at his reflection could move without making a sound whence he so wished.

"Lord Spymaster." Hawke stopped to give him a mocking bow. "May I ask for an audience?"

"For you? All of them."

The mirror rippled with an approaching shadow. Hawke laid his calloused palms on Anders' shoulders, caressing the fabric and brushing the patch of skin above the collar. He too has exchanged his leathers for a tunic - the deep shade of crimson he seemed to be so fond of. He let his hair scatter down the back, dark shimmering waves perfect for petting, touching, grabbing, pulling. Anders reminded himself not to stare and still did, as he had countless times before in failure to contain his hopeless infatuation. It hasn't faded over time, though much else did.

"It suits you," Hawke said, interrupting his thoughts. "The title, I mean. But the uniform too."

"I'm not used to it."

"Hmm. Lucky then you have time for practice... my lord."

Shadows twirled in a ginger dance as Anders turned to catch Hawke's chin, stealing a lazy, deep kiss. He drew subtle pleasure in them these days. The familiarity of his lover's lips, the sweet spots his tongue could brush to make Hawke's pulse quicken. The harmony of a well-built mechanism. With burning lust for the untraversed far behind, their kisses have become a showcase of mastery and different ways to say, _I know you._

"Desk?.." Hawke breathed into the narrow space parting their lips, color high in his cheeks and gaze leery like he was drunk.

"Desk."

"Nothing planned for the evening?.."

"Only you."

"What about the Inquisitor--"

"Fuck the Inquisitor."

"I'd prefer to fuck you."

On that they could agree. Anders pulled on Hawke's collar, stumbling backwards, rewarding every kiss with a small moan - just enough to tease, just an echo of pleasure. His fingers ruffled Hawke's hair, tugging the smooth strands to make his head fall back and reveal the most vulnerable part. The throat.

A nimble thief cannot protect his neck, and a blade through it kills in ugly ways: drowning, suffocation, blood loss. To be allowed near it was a gift of immense trust. It brought a tight feeling into Anders' chest, a trembling knot of anxiety and excitement. He was chosen for a great role. To clutch Hawke's shoulders and nip the sweet spot under his ear; to linger over his chin and leave a rose-like hickey under the stubble. The man smelled of soap, a pleasant change from the usual hints of acrid smoke and metal. His breath deepened, and he whimpered as Anders sank his teeth into the tender skin - but stayed still, obedient as a marionette. Champion of Kirkwall. Rebel's coat of arms. He's made it his badge and weapon - being impossible to control. He's crafted his image from bones and hides, sharp stones and bloodied swords. A terrible, dangerous thing.

But where others break spears, Anders is allowed free passage. For is he himself not, after all, a terrible and dangerous thing?

"On your knees." He slid onto the desk, shuffling parchment scrolls and broken seals to the floor. Hawke meddled, nuzzling into the crook of his neck, unwilling to let go. His lips left marks of dry heat on Anders' skin; the thought of them pleasuring him, taking him, silently abiding by the touch of his palm--

"Ah, Andraste's blood!.. Hawke, _now."_

"Yes, sire."

He heard a quiet laughter; the tease, Maker curse him. Reveling, no doubt, in his own end of power, in putting Anders one step away from begging for his attention. The coat fell onto the desk, followed by the shirt as Hawke undid its buttons one by one, greeting every inch of flesh with a gentle kiss. Anders bit his lip and still moaned when clever hands brushed his chest, circling the sensitive nipples, tugging and pinching lightly, each motion a mark of worship so thorough it made him feel like a precious work of art, a deity personified, wrought in flesh and found through loving as one finds a statue by chipping away the marble. Spots of bright pink blush covered him head to toe; he arched into Hawke's embrace, hands still tangled in silky hair.

"You're my ruler," Hawke whispered, petting the small of his back, mouth trailing down the lean, bony frame, "my only master. Break me, toy with me, do anything you want. I'm yours. Yours only."

Anders pushed and Hawke fell under his feet, wide shoulder a perfect spot to place a foot on. Which he did, pressing Hawke down with his leather boots - just enough to mean, _stay there._

"Anything I want, hm?.." he grinned, looking down at his charge. A perfect mess, waterfall of unkempt hair, hard-on noticeable through the trousers, eyes hazy and wicked.

"Anything."

"Come here." He patted his lap, and Hawke drew closer, cheek rested against his master's thigh. "Put your hands on the tabletop."

Compliant as ever, Hawke gripped the edge of the desk on either side of him. Anders had to suppress a chuckle, lightheaded from the sheer amount of power he was entrusted with. Like having a baby bird nestle in your open palm, one short impulse enough to crush it in your fist. But oh, he could never do it, not in a thousand years, he'd cut off his own arm before hurting the precious thing. His precious thing.

"You're going to keep them here, now," he purred, slowly unbuckling his belt. "You're going to be good for me, and if you are, I'll let you put them down. Agreed?"

"Agreed."

"Good. Open your mouth, love."

He brushed the willing lips with just his thumb at first, and Hawke flicked his tongue against the fingertip, smiling ear to ear. A mage's hands are his most treasured friends and most reliable weapons. To be allowed near them is a gift of trust - and opportunity.

Anders let out a quiet gasp as Hawke took his fingers into his mouth one by one, biting down on the knuckles, lapping lovingly at every scratch. He took time to trace each of them with his tongue, to suck and tease them until they were red and dripping. Coherent speech ceased to have any meaning; Anders grabbed Hawke's hair, stroking himself until his cock was as slick with Hawke's saliva as his fingers. Watching his lover take it with a soft desperate noise; the sloppy tongue sliding down its length; the act of willing submission as Hawke kept his palms firm on the tabletop while writhing and clenching his thighs, begging to be repaid for his efforts. If there was heaven after death, he didn't care a fig for it.

"My lord..." There was so much delicious desperation in Hawke's pleas. "My lord, may I--please..."

Anders took a deep breath. His heart pounded like a hammer, and he wished nothing more than to smother Hawke in kisses, to see him come undone, to make him cry and plead, to pour into him every bit of love his heart could muster.

"I bet you want to touch yourself so bad," he chuckled, sliding his feet along Hawke's shoulders - drenched in sweat, ridged with scars and imperfections. Maker bless them, his lovely, lovely shoulders. "I bet you'd like to come for me, wouldn't you, love?.."

"Y-yes, sire."

"Then you'll need to work harder, my dear, sweet Champion. And you will beg harder too."

He could see Hawke's fingers dig into the desk. He could almost taste the frustration, and definitely heard a low groan when he grasped Hawke's locks again, grazing the scalp, to return him where he belonged. Tight pleasure of his earnest, eager lips; uneven breath pumping through the hairy chest; beads of sweat gathered over constellations of his birthmarks. _My precious thing._ He let Hawke find the suitable rhythm and guide the two of them through it. Just following his lead. Just being.

"Are you pleased, my lord?"

"I-ahh... mfmh!" Anders sobbed and bit his tongue as Hawke's lips tightened around him, drawing broken moans from the depths of his very soul. He didn't know that his voice could be so weak, that he himself could be so weak, that he could be reduced to nothing without brute force, chains and ropes. That he could be so fragile and elated, leaning back onto the desk, hips pushing forward, ink and wax staining his naked torso. He let his chest relax with a fullhearted cry; reality thinned out like loose threads in fabric.

Something crackled and snapped beneath his ear; a parchment sheet caught on fire and turned to ashes in seconds. He could feel a tremor of laughter in Hawke's throat, and wished it'd never stop.

When Hawke stopped laughing and the room stopped spinning, he straightened up, fighting the limp sensation that spread within him like hot water. He paused to admire the high expression on his lover's face - the glimmer of aching lust, the mess of precum and saliva dripping down his chin, red blossoms on his cheekbones. Soft, defenseless, so utterly dear, how could there ever be anyone else?..

"My lord," Hawke begged, eyes watered and voice hardly louder than a whisper. "My lord... please, please let me come... please..."

"Yes, yes, my dear... you may touch yourself now." Anders had to shut his eyes; his head was spinning and he feared he'd collapse otherwise. "Maker, you're such a treasure... you really are everything, everything I need, my love, my Champion, what have I ever done to deserve you?.."

He always held back, always shoved the words down, only to avoid being a nuisance. But with Hawke kneeling in front of him, worshiping his cock with one hand and stroking himself with another; with ash and ink and paper scattered over the room; with their masks and titles and clothes stripped and tattered and forgotten, holding back didn't seem important anymore. And so he talked. Words poured from him in a current, everything he's ever thought and whispered to himself and dreamed of in Darktown and afterwards in the mansion, every prayer, every sinful wish, every secret and compliment and every nonsense - it was all so weightless all of a sudden, so easy to let go.

He came into Hawke's mouth and let him lick it clean, still blabbering, words weaving into the crystal web of magic around him. Moments later he slipped from the desk, saved from a cranial injury through the miracle of Hawke's embrace. A strange puzzle of limbs, words, and happy kisses, they lay there on the floor of His Lordship Inquisitorial Spymaster's office, and stuck somewhere between Hawke's arse and Anders' hip was some important letter or a crucial report, and neither of them could find the energy to fish it out of there.

Anders pulled his coat down from the desk and covered them both the best he could. With his head buried in its rigid folds, he was breathing in the bitter scent of Hawke's body, absorbing the dark-blue twilight, and he was happy.

"You are _not_ falling asleep on the floor," Hawke informed him in a tone that bore no objections.

"I am not falling asleep on the floor," Anders repeated, and yawned.

"Your back will be sore. You'll catch a cold. You'll choke on the ash and die in your sleep, and then I'll have to inherit your position. I've just settled into the comfy life of a trophy husband."

"I doubt you'd ever make a good trophy husband. You'd burn the house down."

"Not the point. Now come on, get up!" Hawke sat up straight and shook Anders down onto the floor. "And that's an order, Lord Spymaster."


	3. Fade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok yeah I think I might be having a manic episode this needs to stop  
> set right after Anders' quest in act 2. couldn't bear calling Justice 'it' the whole time so now they're nonbinary I guess.

The Fade prickles.

It's like being wrapped in gruff wool. Or emerging from the sea with lungs full of salty water. It itches behind your ears and in the corners of your eyes. It's not warm or cold, it doesn't smell and has no taste. You don't feel it until you try, and the moment you do it escapes, seeps through your mind. And you wake up.

Except he can't seem to wake up. It holds him, literally. Supple translucent vines spiral up his calves and around elbows, their grip weightless but unbreakable.

The scrutiny of Justice unsettles him. Their attention is heavy, almost physical - because in this realm, it is. The longer they stay, the more tangible it becomes, not just on the surface but the inside too. Someone is rummaging through his innards, picking him apart, pinching here and there to see what happens. At first he's afraid; his thoughts rush like a spring, scatter in all corners, trying to hide. But they aren't interested in his secrets. Their study is, in fact, rather discreet - only touching the shared space between him and Anders. Conversations. Joined memories. Things he can't even remember happening, so insignificant they seemed at the time. Not to them. Not to Justice.

He grows impatient, but can't even twitch in the grasp of the Fade. This is their realm. It abides their rule.

_"This is a mistake. You are a mistake."_

"That's it? You drag me here, poke me and then insult me?" He tries to wiggle out of the restrains, but his own will to free himself warps them into stone-hard substance. Unable to move a digit, Hawke growls with repressed menace. "Why don't you get over here and we sort this out like two... ambiguously existent entities?"

Fighting them would be foolish, downright vain, but that only fuels his anger. They watch with slight curiosity as he struggles against their dominion; under their gaze the air becomes thick and hot, filling his mouth quickly. He gasps, then slopes down in defeat.

_"Be calm. We could not hurt you even if we wished. Even here you are like a beacon. Luring. Distracting."_

The voice of Justice echoes through his empty being, like he's a pond and they're a stone thrown in the center. Now that he's not pushing back, the waves they're making are warm. Pleasant. For a second he forgets to be insulted.

"I... lure you?"

 _"You are... bright. Different. You infect our thoughts._ _For so long we'd thought it a weakness of this mortal body. But we - I - cannot sever from it. I see the world through the same window as he does. As he has grown attached to you, so did I. It's not a natural state for a spirit. I don't understand this need, I've never had it before, thus I wished to examine your memories. To see if you hold any clue."_

Their whisper webs through his mind and body, chiming softly to the rhythm of his pulse. He can reach into their craving now, sense its depth with his own nerves. There is nothing he doesn't recognize. Nothing inhuman. One of the vines climbs over his hip and gently touches his chin.

Oh. _Oh._

"You... you wanted in." He laughs and shakes his head. "Oh dear... Go on then, examine away. This is either going to be extremely fun... or extremely weird."

For a moment they appear confused, uncertain what exactly they're supposed to do with him. Their attention probes him, feather-light at first, weightier with each second. It grows more and more real, until he's close to forgetting any reality beyond the dream. He expects fear and feels none. He gives in.

It is like touching - and nothing like it. They are the sweat in his pores, the air in his chest, they are under his skin and in his veins and on the tips of his lashes. Slowly, with great caution, they brush every inch of him, never spreading too far so that he's aware what they're focused on. There is a hint of movement on his chest: an open hand tracing his sternum. A warm caress between his shoulder blades: two fingers sliding along the spine, carefully counting his vertebrae. A short strike of pain on his lip. A bite. He tries to kiss the spirit back, forgetting he cannot kiss the very air he breathes; he moans in frustration, and a harsh grasp leaves rosy fingerprints on his hip. He draws a sharp breath. His heart is racing. Warmth spreads in the pit of his stomach like alcohol, rushing from the abdomen into the heart and from the heart into the head. Up becomes down and for a moment it feels like he's falling.

 _Is this weird?_ asks a quiet voice inside his head.

"It is. But not in a bad way. You may continue."

_Very well. Close your eyes, please._

He obeys. His eyelids barely flutter shut when his memory rushes in, shining with incredible clarity as if he was living through it for the first time. Kirkwall on a bright sunny afternoon; deep shadow beneath the slums of Darktown; the smell of elfroot and sewers. Dust gritting on his teeth. A sharp brick cutting into his back as Anders pushes him against the wall. The pressure of his fingers on the back of Hawke's neck. A kiss full of such passion it alone makes Hawke blush to the tip of his toes. A promise and a sense of hope.

It changes before he can forget himself. Anders sitting naked on his bed, narrow triangular feet dangling in the air, stretched toward the fire. The smooth touch of his skin as Hawke catches him by the ankle. Flesh giving in like clay as he begins to rub and massage it. Anders' soft gasp, a string of confused questions, pleas, and then just his breath, uneven, broken. In the past, Anders moans, and in the present, Hawke echoes.

 _That sound you make. It is... fragile. Do it again._ _I can sense how much you want it. Moan for me, Hawke. Moan as loud as you wish._

And he does. He moans and whimpers, loud, restless, aching, burning alive in their embrace. Another image, this time from a dream, way before. The feeling of cold, slick leather. Tight pressure around his neck. Clinking of metal, the feeling of fullness in his mouth, his throat shrinking and pushing back. Anders' fingers on his scalp, a sting of pain on his asscheek, sweetness of shame and pleasure. The wish to be held down. The wish to be broken. Deep, joyous, light feeling of somebody caring for you. All of you, edge to edge, top to bottom. All of you being loved, kissed, scolded, and told to be good next time.

"Justice, no!.." Hawke cries, toes curled, fingernails cutting into his palms. It's too much. "Please... slow down."

The memory dissolves. He's left in the blissful darkness, his own tale-telling heart the only witness. One of the vines brushes his cheek.

_Do you wish to wake up?_

"No," he rushes, almost afraid they'll let him go. "No, no, it's fine. You're doing fine. I just... need a moment."

They don't seem to understand, but do not insist. Instead, they surround him in a cloud of soft whispers and cradle his trembling body until he stops shaking. This time they are careful, prying into his thoughts bit by bit while stroking him, planting bitemarks on his shoulder. They feel like soft fabric now, and he buries his face in its waves and lets it wrap around him. He mewls as they bring him closer to orgasm, slow down then move again, ever present, untouchable, invisible. They don't want this to end. They don't want him to leave.

_There is so much within you, Hawke. So many treasures. It is no wonder we have grown so fond of you._

The memory that brings him over the edge is not that private at all. It's the sound of laughter. Clear and melodic and a bit husky. Laughter that bounces off the cobblestones and shatters in the archways. Laughter without pain. Laughter without bitterness. Anders' laughter.

He can hear it whenever he wants now. Whenever he comes back home or is about to leave. Whenever he loses a sparring match with his dog or falls face first into the pillow after a long day. Whenever he's in a study at three o'clock in the morning, sitting on the banister with a sweet pastry in one hand and Varric's latest novel in the other. He can hear it coming from his room and know Isabela broke into the house again, probably fishing for juicy gossip.

It's huge, this simple knowledge. It's a whole world for him to take in. And so he does, again and again, while Justice is combing his hair and wiping the sweat from his forehead.

"Don't tell him about this one."

_What about the--_

"That you should share, actually. Easier this way. But not this one. Not yet."


	4. Collar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tw: mentions of violence & death, consensual non-consent

"Be quiet, now. And don't you dare move."

He did as told. He couldn't see what Anders was doing behind him, but he knew better than to turn and look. Even left alone, he could still feel Anders' fingers inside him, the agony of not being allowed to move, the pain that followed his disobedience. There was more to come. But it was what he wanted.

It's not always a good thing, to belong.

He's been a man of violence long as he could remember. As a child of ten he stood over a hare's corpse and watched its life flee into the undergrowth. The sight stirred neither sadistic joy nor vindication. Just this odd, quiet feeling. He was pragmatic and justified it plainly. Some children are born with magic, some aren't. Some are born to wear crowns, others are born to polish them. And if there is a healer whose gift is to grant new life, there must be someone whose gift is to take it.

And there were years, decades even, when he found comfort in serving his eternal master. But as a wolf among sheep he incited fear, and being feared is very tiring. After long stretches of absence while he did Inquisitor's bidding he would come back exhausted, with a fresh load of scars and ghosts, and fall into Anders' arms wishing only one thing - to stop being the scary Chasind man and be just Hawke for a night.

That's what the collar was for.

It clicked shut on his neck, and in that instant his blood flow quickened. Magic-induced heat rushed down into his groin. He pressed his face into the mattress and whined, wanting to touch himself but knowing it would get him in trouble. The collar was warm, an odd quality for metal. And it throbbed like a clockwork heart.

Anders inched close to his ear.

"Any hints of remorse yet?.." He leaned onto Hawke's shoulder, tracing the collar with his pinkie. "Go on, speak up."

Speaking up required every bit of self-control Hawke had left. The magic felt like a bath full of hot water; he melted away in it.

"I'm sorry," was all he could come up with. Anders' palm ran along his ribs and locked around his cock. He hissed and thrust into the fist as hard as he could.

"I'm sorry what?.."

"I'm sorry, sir!"

He was rewarded with a kiss on the cheek; Anders' hand slid down his shaft and squeezed him tighter. The heat grew and demanded more. He pushed forth, all eager wish and naked nerve - even as he knew this was exactly what Anders wanted. This was his punishment, and every lazy stroke of his lover's palm brought reprisal ever closer.

"I'm sorry," he pleaded in a breaking voice. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry..."

He wasn't. Not really. But as Anders kept stroking him quicker and as the metal band began to burn his skin, words kept pouring in a loose string. They came faster as his arousal spiked, and the heat seared through his mind like a patient worm. It left him empty, mellow and caving in. Into that emptiness flowed Anders' will and want. The slightest glimpse of his intent was law, and Hawke has ceased to exist beyond the warmth of Anders' fist and the rhythmic pressure of his hips.

He wanted to and could not stop. A spark of fear ignited within him when he realized he was leaking already, wetting Anders' fingers. The knot of pleasure became so tense he could feel it as a lump in his belly. He wasn't ready yet. But such was his master's will and there would be no defying it. Just as he finally managed to get a hold of his senses and slow down, Anders sneaked his other hand underneath his body and caught one of his nipples between his index and middle finger. Hawke twitched and attempted to curl up, but the loving limbs restrained him like the vines of magic that his lover's _other_ half so enjoyed using.

"No, no, Anders, please, not the-uhh!.." A static charge pranced through the nub of his nipple, and he moaned in a desperate pathetic manner. He couldn't see much beyond the wrinkled sheets but the familiar scent of lightning and the heavy sigh above his head indicated they were no longer alone. Though they never truly were, he supposed with a last bit of his consciousness.

 _"Only one word, Hawke."_ The voice vibrated, it seemed, right in his own chest. _"One word, and we stop."_

"Don't... you... dare."

Hawke. It was something slur-like when he was little. Then it was 'Fereldan' and 'Atheneril's bloodhound'. Then 'Champion'. After many years, the hefty golden chain of 'Her Worship's Private Advisor' and 'Bodyguard to the Lord Spymaster'. They've become so heavy, those bay leaf wreaths. He wondered at times if they were even worth the glory.

And only Anders and Justice could reduce his aging, scarred, battle-hardened core to just Hawke. Just Hawke, writhing on the bed with his ass in the air and his head low. Just Hawke who begged through torn sobs, _have mercy, please, I'll do anything, master, mercy, please, please-please-please..._

His spend slicked Anders' hands and his own torso, and for a brief moment he moved in a languid dream-like state, overjoyed and satisfied. He wouldn't be let off the hook this easily though. The cursed collar still urged his heart to race; it kept him half-hard and never truly spent even if his own body would refuse to take it. He felt the clever fingers on his flesh again and cussed under breath, trying to calm down. It was little help; he was shaking as a leaf.

 _"Yes, yes, just like that, our dearest,"_ Anders murmured, nibbling gently down his back. _"Such a good, obedient little thing. Hold still. This is not over yet."_

There were tears in his eyes. He pushed back against their body and away from their grip, but there was no room for him to escape. They stroked him without regard for his pleas and cries, and soon he was eager for them again and rushed to meet their hand. His limp biceps couldn't hold the weight anymore, but Anders caught and lifted him almost without effort. Their strength never shone through that humble cage of a body. It surprised and terrified Hawke every time.

"P-please..." Every word cost him an entire lungful. "Ple-ease... I can't... I can't take it... Please..."

 _"You're ours, Hawke,"_ replied the voice imposed upon his mind. _"And you will take as much as we tell you to."_

Two round droplets rolled down his cheeks and soaked into the fabric. His face was burning hot but it was nothing compared to the heat their hands brought to his cock - like they were melted out of scorched metal. He made one final attempt to wrangle for his freedom before submitting and moving with them, a short cry ripping through his throat at every thrust.

If only his eternal master could see him now. So undone. Serving as a toy that makes funny noises when it's squeezed. _Ours._ His primordial lord laid a claim on him too, made him feel like a thing. But a thing with a sharp edge. All that holds it is sliced in half. All that it touches, it cuts. A danger to everyone around.

Anders could stir him left and right, hug him and crush the air out of his chest (ouch!). In this state he was such a gentle being, and a danger to no one.

And they loved him for it.

 _You are our heart, our blood_ , they whispered in two intertwined voices as he came again in a painful violent motion. _Best thing that ever happened to us. We love you so very much, so much our essence weeps, so much we could shatter now with you in our arms. We have loved you before you existed and will love you long after this world is gone. We will love you through the Void and back. Our Hawke. Our dearest Hawke._

And he loved them back with all his mangled, mortal, good-for-nothing heart.

They gave him a minute's pause, slouching down on his side. He nuzzled into their chest, feeling their arms and legs weave about him like a strange tree. He took a few breaths, and then pressed a sloppy, watery kiss into their shoulder.

"Yours," he uttered with a flow of tears. "Yours."

The draw of the collar released him somewhat - their influence, perhaps. Still he scooched over and rubbed himself against them, moaning into their mouth. They laughed, and the ribbon of heat closed on his neck once more. The pain was excruciating but the pleasure made up for it tenfold. He couldn't really control what he was saying anymore; he vaguely remembered something about love and death and for some reason dragons. All of it was nonsense. None of it made any difference when they held him and every twist of his muscles made his erection slide up against theirs. None of it mattered when their palm pressed under his chin and slowed the flow of oxygen just enough for him to start blacking out, but not enough to actually harm him. Nothing in the whole world held any value whatsoever when along with them he spilled into the tight space between two bodies, and the tears trickling before in a narrow stream broke out into a full roaring waterfall.

They took the collar off and threw it on the floor - too quickly to conceal their concern. He fell into the wet mess of their hug and cried to his heart's content - which was very, very long as he thought. Or maybe not at all. Time was among the concepts that had lost all importance by that point.

"Shh. Hey. Hey..." Anders sounded almost freaked out. "Are you well, love? Talk to me."

It took a titanic effort for Hawke to stop sobbing and grant him a reassuring peck on the chin. After all, he wasn't the only one in need of care.

"You're-" he coughed and had to start again. "You're everything. Everything."


End file.
